


If You're Working for the Mafia, and I'm Working for the Mafia, Then Who's Driving the Car?

by nonbinaryspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little, M/M, Mafia AU, Pining, dumb boys, i guess not technically an au bc this probably could've happened lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 06:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19762687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinaryspock/pseuds/nonbinaryspock
Summary: I'm sorry the title of this is so long I truly can't come up with anything better than this bad joke.Aziraphale/Crowley run into each other in the early nineteen-twenties and discuss new hobbies, organized crime, and cannoli.





	If You're Working for the Mafia, and I'm Working for the Mafia, Then Who's Driving the Car?

Crowley checks his watch as he unfolds himself from his brand new Bentley, stepping out onto the sidewalk. He is fashionably late for his meeting, as planned, and he strolls leisurely down the street. He breathes in the thick, vaguely foul smelling air of New York City.

He’s been in the States for a few years now, having finally overcome his wariness of sea travel after the whole Titanic fiasco—really, how was _he_ supposed to know the damn thing would sink? Of course, it’s just his luck that he made it stateside in time to enjoy the results of the Protestants’ latest tantrum (also known as Prohibition). Crowley doesn’t know how they expect anyone to be able to cope with this wretched world without getting blind drunk every now and again.

Anyway, upon arriving in New York, Crowley once again fell in with somewhat of an unsavory crowd. He supposes it must simply be in his nature. He had been wandering around dying for a drink when a lovely young man had said he knew exactly where to get such a thing. Apparently a whole industry of underground breweries and such had blossomed in defiance of Prohibition. They got to talking over drinks, one thing led to another and, well, Crowley ended up as an associate of the American Mafia. Go figure.

He turns a corner, continuing on down a slight hill towards the park where he’s supposed to be meeting a contact from one of the breweries his particular slice of the Mob oversees. He hops down a set of stone steps into the park, peering around for anyone who looks suspicious or nefarious in any way. He doesn’t see anyone who matches that description—though he did encounter a nasty looking squirrel—but he notices something that makes his heart stutter and his mouth go dry.

Sitting on a bench overlooking a small pond is Aziraphale. His pale blond hair shimmers in the afternoon sunlight, like a soft cloud or halo framing his round face. He checks his pocket watch with an impatient click of his tongue before tucking it back into his coat pocket. Crowley’s jaw tightens. Who could _he_ be waiting for?

Against his better judgment, Crowley approaches Aziraphale with a huff. He comes to stand just behind the angel, clearing his throat loudly.

Aziraphale turns, his whole face lighting up when he notices Crowley—who has to will his legs to stay steady when faced with the angel’s bright, lovely smile. “Well!” he exclaims, scooting to one side of the bench in order to look at Crowley more directly. “What a delightful coincidence! I didn’t even know you were in the Americas.”

“Well, it’s not like you gave any indication that you were here either,” Crowley says, trying not to pout. “When did you get in?”

“Oh, a few years back. Thought I’d give the whole thing another try, despite all the trouble we had with that ship last time.” Aziraphale frowns, his nose wrinkling slightly. “What an embarrassment to American engineering.”

“So you just… came without me?” he asks, a touch of disappointment creeping into his voice.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice the change in his tone. “Well, you swore up and down you’d never set foot on a boat again so I figured it wasn’t worth trying to persuade you.”

“If you had asked, I would’ve gone,” he mutters under his breath.

“Either way,” Aziraphale continues brightly, taking no notice of _that_ either, “we’re both here now. Maybe after I’m through with my meeting we can go for a late lunch.”

Crowley frowns, taking another look around the park. He still doesn’t see anyone who looks like they could be a Mob contact. “ _I_ have a meeting too,” he says. “And, you know what, I bet my meeting is way cooler and more interesting than whatever it is you’re up to.”

“Probably,” he agrees easily. “You always do seem to know the most colorful people. What’s your meeting about?”

“Can’t tell you,” he says quickly. “Top secret. Very evil stuff, you know.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Aziraphale says. “I guess whatever it is must be more interesting than my meeting—which he is _late_ for, mind you.”

“Really?” Crowley asks, feigning nonchalance. “And, erm, who exactly are you supposed to be meeting with?”

“Ah, just supposed to talk to someone about my little hobby,” he says, making that face he makes when he’s proud of something but doesn’t want to admit it. “You know, I’ve been operating a small brewery on the side. Selling to—what do they call them? Speakeasies?”

Crowley feels like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him. He chokes on nothing, doubling over in a raucous fit of coughing. “You’ve been doing _what?_ ” he blurts out, his eyes watering.

“Just a little skill I picked up over the years—and a good thing too, what with all the Prohibition nonsense.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What are they going to do next, outlaw desserts?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says in a low voice, the reality of the situation finally dawning on him, “are you telling me that you’ve been running an illegal alcohol empire right under my nose this whole time?”

“Well, _empire_ is a bit of an exaggeration, and there isn’t really much to run when you get down to it,” he says sheepishly. “It’s just me, really. I only really got into it as a way to keep busy, you know. But then a few gentlemen came to talk to me about a very generous offer and—I mean, it’s easy enough to just make one batch of something nice for myself and then all it takes is a little miracle to make _that_ into a batch big enough to distribute.” He looks more than a little guilty as he says this. “I know it’s illegal,” he says, lowering his voice as well, “but it’s just a bit of fun. And it’s not hurting anyone. _And_ everyone knows that Prohibition is—pardon my language—stupid. So I don’t really see the harm in—”

“You are working for the _Mafia_ , you sap,” Crowley whispers aggressively, leaning down to face the angel. “Your meeting is with _me!_ ”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and he blinks in stunned silence. Then, he asks, “ _You’re_ working for the _Mafia?_ ”

“Wh—no! Well, I mean, it’s not—that’s beside the point!” he splutters. “Why are _you_ making alcohol for the Mob?”

“Well, they didn’t _say_ they were with the Mafia at the time,” he says, seeming puzzled. “They just mentioned that they were representing their family, I believe.”

Crowley groans, resisting the urge to tear his own hair out. “They’re a _crime_ family, angel.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I suppose I should’ve paid more attention when they were talking.”

He drags a hand down his face out of exasperation. “I can’t leave you alone for five seconds,” he grumbles with a shake of his head. “Look, why don’t we just call the whole thing off and go grab a bite of something to celebrate yet another job gone utterly wrong?”

“Call the whole thing off?” Aziraphale repeats slowly. “You mean… just quit?”

Crowley shrugs. “I was planning to quit soon anyway. Organized crime isn’t as fun as it seems. Mostly just a lot of work, really.”

“Can we just… do that?” he asks hesitantly. “I mean, won’t they send somebody after us?”

“Nothing a little miracle can’t fix,” he says confidently, deciding that one way or another Future Crowley will be the one that has to handle this mess. “Come on,” he coaxes, already in a better mood. “I know a lovely little cannoli shop. Very authentic.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle a little at the mention of cannoli. “Well… I suppose the whole thing _was_ more trouble than it’s worth.” He nibbles on the edge of his lip, giving Crowley a peculiar look that he can’t quite read. But the look passes after a few moments and Aziraphale smiles softly. “What’s a few cannoli between associates?” he says, getting up from the bench.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Just say friends, angel. It’s faster.”


End file.
